Lizzie didn't deserve any of the blame.
This was entirely down to him.
He had failed her.
“Come here,” George said, and before she could respond, he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into his embrace.
She clung to him so viciously that it made his heart ache as the scent of her filled his nostrils.
He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of her pressed against him, and his arms tightened around her. He held the back of her head as she nuzzled her face into his chest.
It was the sound of a bird rustling in the hedges behind him that made George pull back quickly.
They couldn't be found alone like this. No matter how he wished to remain there, comforting her for as long as she needed him, it would destroy her if someone were to witness such an intimate moment.
The disappointment on her face was evident for only a moment before she seemed to compose herself, stepping away until the statue prevented her from going any further.
“Come,” he said through gritted teeth, “I'll escort you back to the party.”
She didn't argue. Instead, she silently dipped her head, and George put a little more distance between them as he turned to exit the maze.
As they walked, barely within reach of each other, George felt every inch of his body fighting to move closer, to take hold of her hand, and assure her that all would be well.
Though she had composed herself, the tension in her shoulders, in her entire body, told him she was still traumatized by what had happened.
A part of him wished to apologize, to tell her he was sorry for having assumed she knew exactly what was going on. But he kept his mouth firmly shut.
Neither of them uttered a word as they returned to the party.
The moment they did, he saw how several men turned their attention on Lady Cecelia, and it was at that moment that he came to realize.
For the first time since the war, he had something precious to lose. All he could do now was pray that nobody else had been witness to their being alone together.
Chapter 13
Alone in her room, Cecelia put pen to paper, writing in her journal on all that had happened at the garden party.
It had become somewhat of a ritual for her, especially since her father's death, a way to express all that she had been holding in. The more recent pages held an overwhelming amount of grief, and though she wrote of her trauma due to the Marquess of Blackburn, she realized there was some good in what she wrote, too.
His grace had done exactly as she had asked. He had given her the space she needed to conduct her own efforts in search of a marriage, and it had all fallen apart.
And right when it had, he had been there. He had come like a knight in a fairytale to rescue a princess from the dragon's maw.
She closed her eyes for a second, smiling, shaking her head at the ridiculousness of such a notion.
She was no princess, and he was no knight, though the image of the Marquess of Blackburn as a dragon was most definitely an amusing yet terrifying one.
She opened her eyes again, rereading the words she had written in her journal as she came to realize that perhaps she had misjudged the duke. Perhaps he truly did have her best interests at heart.
After all, he had saved her from scandal when she had been foolish enough to believe the marquess’ lies. As he had come to realize the situation, he had even comforted her.
She closed her eyes again, remembering well how it had felt to be held by him. That feeling was one she hoped would remain with her for a lifetime.
It was the first time since her father's death that she had felt secure, that she had felt some modicum of stability.
She had just finished writing her entry and was contemplating the fact that perhaps she ought to lay a little more trust in the duke, when there was a swift knock on her bedroom door followed by its opening.
She hurried to close her journal and shoved it into the top drawer of her desk before she turned to find Mary entering the room with an excited expression.
